Published by Douglas Messerli, the World Cinema Review features full-length reviews on film from the beginning of the industry to the present day, but the primary focus is on films of intelligence and cinematic quality, with an eye to exposing its readers to the best works in international film history.

Alan
Jay Lerner’s and Frederick Loewe’s original film musical of 1958 received
several glorious reviews, including the New
York Times reviewer Bosley Crowther’s comparison of it with the author and composer’s
Broadway success My Fair Lady. The
music later garnered numerous Golden Globe Awards and eight Oscars, including
Best Picture, Best Director (Vicente Minnelli), Best Screenplay (Alan Jay
Lerner), Best Costume Designer (Cecil Beaton), and Best Original Score (awarded
to the film’s musical arranger, André Previn instead of to composer Frederick
Loewe). In 1991 the film was selected for inclusion in the Library of Congress’
National Film Registry. Today, Gigi
is generally perceived as the last great cinematic musical presented by Arthur
Freed and MGM Studios.

Despite all of these kudos—or perhaps one
should say, along with them—some reviews portrayed the film as “100% escapist
fare” (Variety), the family-oriented TV Guide describing the experience of
seeing it as making one feel that “you’re gagging on pastry. …Ten minutes into
the movie, you’ve resolved the plot and are left to wallow in lovely frou-frou.”
Nearly everyone praised the sets, costumes, and acting, but, as Time Out described it, watching Gigi is like eating a meal “consisting
of cheesecake”; “One quickly longs for something solid and vulgar to weigh
things down.”

No one could not possibly disagree with
the statements of the beauty of Minnelli’s film, but at times I feel these
critics may not have seen the same film I watched again for at least the 10th time on a home-library DVD. The film I watched
begins with the Gallic charmer Maurice Chevalier (playing the elderly womanizer
Honoré Lachaille) singing what might almost be described as a paean to
pedophilia, “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.” True, Honoré’s interest in the
little girls over upon whom he leers as they play near Paris’ Bois de Boulogne
is that “they grow up in the most delightful ways.” And the sexual liaisons in
which he attempts to engage throughout the film are mostly ineffectual. In
reality Chevalier was nearly 70 at the time the film features him with young
women upon his arm, which certainly might lead to some gossip in real life.
Honoré, however, has no quibbles about suggesting his handsome young nephew
(Gaston Lachaille, played by Louis Jourdan) keep in the touch with young so
that some of youth might “rub off.” Honoré’s past affairs, however, seem to
have little effect upon him, since, as he reveals in his duet with a former lover
Madame Alvarez, “I Remember It Well,” he brazenly forgets nearly everything.

Gaston, meanwhile, is an absurdly spoiled
young man-about-town, who, despite his numerous affairs with beautiful women—one
of which results in his former lover’s suicide (she has killed herself from “insufficient
poison” numerous times)—and a penchant for buying expensive baubles that might
even make someone like Donald Trump blink, is, so he declares, utterly “bored.”
His self-centrism is reiterated in the Lerner and Loewe ditty (“She Is Not
Thinking of Me”). The only “thing” he
seems to enjoy is the company of a young schoolgirl, Gigi (the fresh-faced
Leslie Caron), to whom he brings candy in turn for numerous card games and the
simple joy of watching her flaunt her youthful cleverness. At one point he
brings her grandmother, Madame Alvarez (Hermione Gingold), a bottle of
champagne, which, despite the elder’s warning, with Gaston’s help Gigi gulps
down in such quantities that she becomes quite drunk (“The Night They Invented
Champagne”).*

If we are not shocked by the young girl’s
behavior or, at least, the lack of her proper parenting—her own mother has
seemingly abandoned her for life on the stage—surely the society of the time
might be—a fact of Gigi is well aware through her reading of numerous scandal
sheets—all which seemingly center upon the rakish life of Gaston and others.
The Belle Époque, as presented in this film, is a world of gossips, brilliantly
revealed in the movie’s luscious scenes in the wealthy dining rooms of Maxim’s.

If the alcoholic inebriation of a young
girl doesn’t phase one, perhaps the fact that the girl’s grandmother and her
sister, Alicia (Isabel Jeans) are attempting to educate their young charge in
the art of being a high-paid mistress, might give one pause. After the two
younger figures, Gaston and Gigi, innocently gambol about the beach at
Deauville—despite the fact that a grown man wrestling upon the sand with a teenage
girl might give viewers pause—the women join forces to speed up the young’s
sexual education. Gaston, realizing that he has suddenly fallen in love with
the formerly gawky kid, is quite willing and ready to grandly set her up
(house, servants, clothes, jewels, and even a carriage) as what used to be
called a “kept woman.” As Honoré quips, a girl like that is good for four
months!

A quick learner, despite the frustrations
of her teacher-Aunt, Gigi bollixes his plans by performing all the selfless
tasks of waiting on her lover as well as all the other women he has
encountered. Boredom ensues once more; and Gaston, returning Gigi home like she
were package a spoiled meat, is ready to abandon her before he has even begun
the seduction and rape which was surely to have followed.

True, this Colette-inspired work occurs in
Paris at the beginning of the 20th century, a world far removed in
the moral values and Sunday-school admonitions of Kalamazoo. And, in the end,
the authors redeem the murky relationships somewhat by marrying off Gigi to
Gaston, whereupon we observe her interacting with the ladies of Bois de
Boulogne as if she were an old friend of everyone. As Gaston calls her back to
his side in the carriage we almost fear that, given Gigi’s final
transformation, his eyes might shift to the gatherings of young girls of which
the old codger Honoré and, now, the whole chorus rhapsodize in a reprise of “Thank
Heaven for Little Girls.”

In the end, one has to wonder, after all
of producer Arthur Freed’s battles with the members of the Hays Office to make
this film, just what that haven of moral decency won. Superficially, of course,
all may be as sweet and delicious as the cake sweetened with curds, eggs, milk
and sugar; the film almost seems to have given up any of its Colette-based
plot. But just underneath that layer of dessert topping is something in this
film that takes us in another direction, something closer to another notion of “cheesecake,”
genre of feminine pin-ups, revealing lots of leg if little explicit nudity; and,
at times, to put it more vulgarly, we may even glimpse, metaphorically
speaking, yet another slang variation of that word: a subversive flash of a
woman’s crotch, which certainly does, despite the criticisms of magazines like Time Out substantially “weigh things
down.” One might even argue that, despite all of its extravagant costumes and
sets, the characters of the world are utterly consumed with the idea of sex.
Even the innocent Gigi, early on in the movie, decries the Parisian
preoccupation with sex in the song “The Parisians”:

Gigi: A necklace is love! A ring is love! / A rock from
some obnoxious little king is love! / A sapphire with a star is love! / An ugly
black cigar is love! / Everything you are is love! You would think it would
embarrass / All the people here in Paris / To be thinking every minute of love!

It is
just these underlying, slightly “darker” elements of this masterful musical
comedy that give it luster—like the dark light that Gigi’s Aunt describes gathering
within the center of an emerald—transforming whatever might be described as “frou-frou”
into a glide of true elegance. As Gaston warns, in order to truly see Gigi, one must be careful not to stand
too close or too far.

*Gigi is also made
drunk, in a later scene, while she dines with her Aunt who is teaching her to
properly consume wine.